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2012-10-18 Exposing Secrets
"Mate in four moves." Magneto sits across from Mystique. Of course, he's not Magneto right now- he's Erik Lehnsherr, a seventy year old senior citizen, and one who plays a mean game of chess. His thin lips curl up in a smile at his companion. "You are becoming a worthwhile adversary, my dear, but I'm afraid that there's no substitute for experience. I've been playing this game a very, very long time," he consoles her. He begins resetting his own pieces, leaving her white-crested king standing forlorn and rather alone on the tabletop. "Shall we play another match?" The events that took place in Gotham had spooked Kwabena just a bit too much. Worse, he'd started to hear rumors about an 'Invincible Man', and had no desire to stick around to find out if those rumors were, indeed, about him. And so, he'd changed his clothes, shaved the cornrows from his head, and taken the morning train to New York. Finding his way to Staten Island, he's taken to wandering Historic Richmond Town, trying desperately to ease his mind. The stress and worry have brought about an immense urge to relapse, but in a place like this, he felt at least somewhat safe; he couldn't imagine finding a hook in a quaint, touristy place like this. Nevertheless, as he wanders through the historic district, he finds himself holding his arms as if cold, fingers gently scrawling at the leather of his jacket, wishing quietly that his fingernails were, indeed, needles. Losing is always a bit frustrating. For some people it is, in fact, extremely frustrating. Not that Mystique shows it anywhere upon her face, not when it's blue, nor in the guise that she's chosen for the day's festivities. Wavy brown hair hangs to her shoulders, coupled with green eyes and typical New York chic fashion that incorporates a lot of clingy black stuff overlaid with polished silver jewelry. With the lightest flick of a finger she topples her own king, peering across the table with a smirk that seems more sly than it has any right to be. "You're also more familiar with delegating responsibility. This isn't a game for lone wolves." All the same, Mystique does stand to learn something from these experiences. If only she could mimic the strategic mind of a General in the same way she can mimic everything else about them. Her pieces are rounded up, returning each to their rightful places. Her attention isn't as focused on the task as it might seem, however. They aren't the only two out here, and one individual in particular catches her gaze. "One more won't hurt," comes the slightly distracted response. Trouble? No, probably not. But peculiar. "Oh, dear," Magneto murmurs, his eyes following Mystiques. What she perceives as possible trouble, though, he observes as a distinctive man- and one in sore need of help. "I recognize him. If you wouldn't mind, dear, please pull up our list of recently located mutants? The immigrants list we purloined from the importers, not the official one," he adds, following the man's path across the old district. It's very probably that he's the very person Kwabena's here to see. It is very likely, depending on the source, that Kwabena's name would show up differently. He had, after all, come into the country illegally, five years ago, using an illegally obtained name and ID. In fact, there wasn't a single soul to whom he'd given his real name ever since leaving Ghana. However, he can't help but feel eyes upon him, and though he does not turn to look, he feels the heat touching the back of his head. Looking down, he recognizes that his fingers are twitching, so he moves and stuffs them deep into the pockets of his jacket. Only a moment later, the right hand emerges with a soft pack of Lucky Strikes. He sifts one out, bites it with his teeth, and snaps a zippo to life against his face. Plumes of smoke pour out as he begins to puff on the unfiltered tobacco, and he casually comes to a rest next to a small fountain nearby a long bed of roses. That next game can wait, now she's got something of importance to focus on. Out comes a smartphone, Mystique's exquisitely manicured red fingernails tapping and sliding about the screen. One nice thing about her metamorphic abilities is that she's very good at studying a face in a hurry, one glance is all that it takes for her to have the image etched into her thoughts as she scrolls through the list. "Got him. I wouldn't count on the recorded name as being accurate." Every motion she makes is one born of efficiency, rounding up the chess pieces and making herself ready to spring forth from her seat on a seconds' notice. It's a good thing that Erik seems to know this man, because she does not. "No, no, of course not," Erik murmurs. He follows the man's path across the street. "But if memory serves, he is the young man who recently was spotted- what did they say. 'Turning into a cloud of smoke' in a streetfight?" He glances at Mystique's phone, which is clearly running some kind of custom app. "Yes. And yes, my dear. His name is clearly false. Would you invite him to join us? Use those charms of which we are all so fond," he adds, smiling and brushing frail knuckles against her cheek in an affectionate gesture. With the cigarette burning between his fingers, Kwabena begins to study it curiously. He looks at the red tip, then at the palm of his own hand, and for a moment, he considers touching it to his skin. Perhaps he would then know if he could still feel pain, or perhaps better, he might in fact be able to trigger the oddity that flowed through his veins and was knit so deeply into his DNA. But no, it would be foolish to do such a thing, out here in the broad daylight. He ashes the cigarette, then takes one more drag, momentarily closing his eyes as the nicotine offers him some small relief against the burning of his nerves. Finally, he simply grows too paranoid. No longer patient enough to just wait it out, he turns and begins walking away, leaning forward as if it might make him move faster. That sly little smile returns, green eyes narrowing as Mystique eyes the lone man and rises from her seat like a great cat stalking fresh prey. As she walks, her course set to intercept the man as he begins to wander off, that predatory nature has changed into something a bit more sultry. The clicking of boot heels across the ground, the shift of hips, it's so carefully balanced between being professionally attractive and outright exaggerated. Where Erik has been at games of Chess for so many years, she's been a social mimic of every variety. It's just another day on the job. "Mister Ahnbar?" she calls out once she gets within range, a red-painted smile instantly following as she first holds out a hand in greeting, then nonchalantly gestures with the other hand in a way that's friendly and inviting in the same way that it also attempts to cut off his path of retreat. "Melissa Hawthorne. Would you be so kind as to honor us with your presence?" she inquires while looking back to the table where Magneto waits for their return. "We wish to speak with you for a moment." Magneto sits quietly- passively, even- waiting for Mystique to make her introduction. As Kwa's attention is directed to him, he inclines his head and makes a gesture of invitation to an empty seat, looking for all the world like an old man out playing chess. ...except for a man who knows the face of true power- true authority. For Kwa, perhaps, Erik Lehnsherr is far more than a man playing a game in the park with a pretty girl. That name. It hadn't been used in some time, but it brings back very distinct memories. You see, Kwabena has grown quite good at ignoring when things need to be ignored, even when a woman of such, shall it be said, calibre walks his way. It's not until she addresses him by name that his spine runs cold, and he turns to look at her. With one brown eye and one silver, the eyes are odd enough to begin with, but he cannot hide the shock and anger that comes to him when the name is used. Nevertheless, he stops and turns to look at her. He eyes the hand that has been offered, then looks back at Mystique, refusing to take it, for his lack of trust runs deep, and even deeper when the name 'Ahnbar' is used. When she indicates Magneto, he turns and looks across the distance toward the older man, then back to Mystique with a frown on his lips that is quite clearly echoed in his eyes. "Do I have a choice?" His quiet question is littered with the thickness of his Ghanaian accent. The smile that Mystique maintains changes ever so subtly, seasoned with a touch of mischief. There's no warning as the color of one of her eyes shifts, now watching this man very intently with one green eye, and one silver. "A choice is always something which you have. We trust that you'll make the correct choice. You're among good company, I assure you." That one eye shifts back to green, 'Melissa' attempting to gently guide this Mister Ahnbar by the shoulders back to their table. "I gather that you aren't a fan of the name, is there another title which you would prefer?" Lips part when her eye changes color. Had he known better, had he followed his instincts, he would have run away. However, his mind is clouded with the need to use, and his natural element of dark alleys and hiding places has been left far behind in this pristine place. They have caught him off balance. "Ahnbar is acceptable," he answers quietly as he neglects to fight her off. "As acceptable as Melissa is I am sure." He lifts the cigarette to take another drag, and when the red ash gets dangerously close to his fingers, he casts it off into the grass with no respect for it. As they walk, he eyes the woman with blatant distrust, before turning to study the man that they are approaching. "Names and titles make things so difficult, do they not?" Erik asks, a bit whimsically, as they approach. "Names have such power. Such authority. They believed, you know, in certain lands, that knowing a man's name- his true name- rendered the wise a power over him." He eyes Ahnbar, rolling a pair of pawns in his hands. "Here- now- they call me Mr. Lehnsherr. Do you play chess, Mr. Ahnbar?" Now it's more of a grin than a smile, Melissa making no effort to offer up a different name than what had already been presented. Besides, this guy's already a nervous wreck. Keeping matters clean and simple will only work to their advantage. Mystique allows their guest to claim his seat on his own, only leading him over without forcing him to stay. That wouldn't have been a very friendly way to start things off. The goal here is to establish even a modicum of trust between the three. Or, heck, even between Jomas Ahnbar and Erik Lehnsherr. He didn't have to trust her right off the bat. Very few did, and even less did once they got to know her. "You Americans do not value a name in such ways," remarks Kwabena as he takes his seat. "Except, you, Mister Lehnsherr, you are not American." He reaches out to take one of the pawns upon his side of the chess board and boldly moves it into place, but only one space forward. Then he looks back toward the older gentleman, his eyes glowering toward him without mercy. "What is it that you want from me?" He glances toward Melissa, as if to quietly include her in his inquiry. "I do not care much for company." "Me? Want?" Erik shakes his head, moving a pawn into position, an unorthodox counter to Kwabena's gambit. "I want for nothing. I have a home, a family, and purpose. Tell me, young sir, do you have... purpose?" he asks. Clear, bright blue eyes flicker to the man's face. "You do well to identify my voice, young man. Few have that gift for words and voices." He inclines his head gratefully to Mystique, inviting her to take a seat at his right hand. Good to know that she hasn't lost her touch. Mystique isn't American, though Melissa is. It's no wonder that she doesn't get any trouble from mind-readers! With Erik's motion she takes a seat beside him, gracefully smoothing out her clothes as she does so. "He's lost his direction," she states while going back to visually examining Jomas. "I know that look." Kwabena smirks a bit at the way Erik replies with such grand bravado. There's a moment of quiet laughter, and he looks again at Mystique as she takes her seat, before once again meeting Erik's eyes. "You want to understand me, is that it?" he asks. "Well, I am not one to answer questions. I do not want to know people and I don't want people to know me. I hope you understand what I mean." That last phrase, there's something about the way he spoke it, as if he was more referencing the thickness of his African accent, rather than the blunt message itself. He did not, however, truly answer Erik's question, which may have been an answer in and of itself. Looking at the chess board again, he slips one of his bishops out three spaces, risking nothing, but a move designed to make Erik question Kwabena's motives. Then, Melissa speaks. He looks over toward her, offended at first, then defensive. He leans toward her, doing everything he can not to grow violent. "I don't /need/ direction," he hisses, eyes narrowed. "My good man, we're having a perfectly pleasant game of chess here," Magneto says, his voice full of soothing tones. There's something almost hypnotic in how he speaks- not hypnotism, per se, but a masterful command of tone and timbre. Magneto speaks with a conviction found only in saints and heroes- an absolutely certainty of rightness that resonantes from his very person. His answer to Kwabena's advance is another shift of a pawn, opening up his castle piece to advance. "You don't have to answer any questions, my young friend," he states, his voice a languid rumble. "Your face speaks a story of much sorrow. Abuse. Rejection. Pursuit. You have the look of the hunted- and the eyes of a predator," he adds, flicking a finger towards him to indicate for him to take his move. "And you do not need to regard us as your enemies," Melissa reassures the man. She could easily dive into some big speech about how direction is important and whatnot, but with Erik at the conversational helm, her work is cut out for her. Really, she only adds things along the way in order to give herself something to do. People tend to get uncomfortable when she sits around and stares at them without ever saying a word. Funny thing, that. "You do not need to be known to know that you are understood." Acceptance, plain and simple, no strings attached. Whomever you are, whatever you came from, it doesn't matter. We understand. For a few moments, the African is silent. He looks from Erik to Melissa, then back to Erik again. For the first time, he seems to be actually considering their words, rather than presenting them with a shield of defiance and poor manners. He looks back to the chess board again, then simply moves the bishop back into place. He's toying with his opponent, clearly opening his pawns up to attack, for he wishes to see exactly what the well-spoken man might do. "You both have gone to great efforts to find out who I am," he finally says, only this time his voice is quieter, his accent less pronounced, some of the abrasiveness gone. "And considering the way that you speak, you must know others..." He looks up from the board, fixing his opponent with a direct look. "...like me." Like him. "And you both know this is dangerous," he adds, looking over toward Melissa as if to direct the question at her, for it was she who displayed a fraction of her talents to him. "Don't you?" Erik's smile is warm and even... grandfatherly. He advances another pawn forward. "My young friend, there is a certain aspect of chess- and warfare- called a risk-reward scenario." He advances a knight out to cover the position his pawns take, and in the next series of exchanges, rapidly breaks from his conservative defensive posture to an aggressive, almost foolhardy stance. At Mystique's words, he smiles encouragingly at her and pats her hand. "Well put, my dear. She's right, my friend," he tells his opponent. "And wrong. From us, from me- you have nothing to fear. From them, though..." His eyes flicker to the vast gestalt of humanity swirling around the city. "From them, you have everything to fear. They hate us, you know," he continues. "Those of us who are... gifted. Who are exceptional. Superior." He watches the man's reprisals for his foolhardy advance. "They say that the future of humanity is not humans at all. Homo Erectus- the direct predecessor of modern humanity- arose first in Africa," he murmurs. "And Homo Sapiens- thinking men- established the first of all villages a stones throw from the gulf of Egypt. And now, sitting before me- Homo Superior. The modern mutant. The pinnacle of all human evolution. And he fears me as if I were one of a thousand ants, scuttling around under his boots." He glances meaningfully around the city streets. "There is risk in everything that we do," Melissa tells the other man when his attention is cast in her direction. "How it is used separates success from failure. That, and some of us might happen to enjoy it." There's no need for her to wear an emotional mask on top of the physical one with an admission like that. Here, joining them at their table, is a man who is no stranger to conflict. It's something that she can relate to. Respect, even. Not afraid of a little fight? Great, come fight with us. "As their fears gather momentum, we will soon be left with little choice. Our survival counts upon us working together. Before long, everyone must choose a side to stand with." This side will appreciate whatever skills you have to bring to the table. All of them. To answer Erik's foolhardy motions, Kwabena adopts a rather curious strategy. He foregoes many of the best opportunities to take out his match's stronger tools in favor of two goals; the first being the systematic elimination of Erik's pawns, which is often paired with the duck and dodge of luring his Knights, Rooks and Bishops until black and white circle each other in a strange dance of deceit and study. It almost feels as if Kwabena were a man who has studied the game, read about the game, even thought of it in his mind, only to have never actually played it with a real life opponent. He pays heed to Melissa's words closely, angling his head with slight curiosity when she speaks of words that resemble impending war. Then he turns his attention upon Erik, and actually smiles at the way he is spoken of. He lifts a hand and gestures toward Erik twice, while his grin comes across as more genuine, honestly entertained. "Well put, Mister Lehnsherr. I do like your style." At first, they might think that he is speaking only of their dialogue, but he is soon to put them straight. "You adopt a risky stance with your game, but you are studying me, are you not? You want to see how I react, what I do, how I move. You want to know the real me, the one behind all of this." He gestures to himself, his face, his bald head, which only a day ago was braided into the cornrows of a typical street thug. Suddenly he sits back, resigning the game but for a moment so that he might fold his arms. "Let me tell you what I know of Homo Sapiens. They don't trust, they cannot be trusted. They do not understand us, so they have no choice but to fear us. Fear becomes hatred, and hatred becomes tragedy. If you want to know me..." He leans forward and places a hand upon his bishop, immediately moving it across the board to assassinate one of Erik's Knights. While his Bishop is now exposed to one of the pawns, moving that pawn would expose his opponent's Queen to a well placed and protected Knight. The natural next step, regardless of what Erik chooses to do, would ultimately expose Kwabena's King to a checkmate. However, before Erik can take his next move, Kwabena reaches out and lifts his King from the table, cupping it into the palm of his hand in some form of strange symbolic gesture. "Know that no matter what move I make, I cannot be beaten." Magneto raises an eyebrow at Kwabena's play. "You have an interesting tact. One wonders what game you're playing," Magneto replies. He falls silent and allows the last two plays to go- indeed, advancing his King out of cover, but directly into the trap Kwabena's laid for him. The board dynamic suddenly changes. Shifting a King reveals the Queen at his side, silent the entire time- and the audacity of his trap, set twenty moves past, comes into view. He makes a slight but visible gesture, and the King in Kwabena's hand levitates out of the man's hands, to where it had been placed originally. And now, in checkmate. "Have you learned anything interesting from our game, my young friend? Have you seen where the true power on the chessboard lies?" he asks, his tone a heavy whisper and his eyes intensely bright. Aah, now things begin to get interesting. Mutants sitting around, endlessly studying one another. Looking for chinks in the proverbial armor. Melissa always did enjoy this game, as does Erik she suspects. He sure has a gift for it, regardless. Chess may not be the most exciting past-time to witness, but the way this one has played out makes it all worthwhile. Such tactics remain curious, almost foreign to her. A loner may only represent one piece, but for her that piece can assume the form of any other piece that it desires. Why even have others if their role is to perish? It's still a game, though one which is completely different from those which she partakes in. When the final piece falls into place, literally with the levitation at play, Melissa silently stands and offers a somewhat distant smile to the two. The motion is completed by walking around behind where Erik sits, her fingertips lightly trailing along the back of his shoulders from one side to the next. With his question left hanging in the air for Jomas, she slips away from the table and leaves them to their conversation. Loosening his fingers, Kwabena releases the King willingly and watches it slowly float back into its rightful place. Until this day, he had only ever witnessed his own mutant ability, so to see something so different from another is momentarily fascinating. He tries not to show it, but there is a moment of silence. Once the King rests, he looks up from it and toward the older man while a grin curls at his lips. "I am, shall we say, enlightened." He watches quietly as Melissa takes her leave, then leans forward quizzically. "Tell me, Mister Lehnsherr. How fast can you make it move?" "The question of a warrior! You don't want to know how fast I can make it move. You want to know if my talents are the modest gestures of the street thugs you've met, or if I can use my talents for more than parlor tricks. You want to know if I can kill," he murmurs, eyes wide and compelling. Slowly, Erik Lensherr rises, his chair sliding without any of the noise iron usually makes on stone. "Any fool can kill. Any human with a rock, or a mutant with a power. A wise man would ask why, someone with all the power at my disposal, would want to know why I would bother with a man who would ask you to his table." He leans forward, peering down at Kwabena. "Power is useless without the will to act. If you look for purpose, I can show you a purpose. If you find a purpose, I can show you the will to make that purpose a reality." He makes a pass, and drops a business card in the middle of the chess table. "You can find me here, most days. The codeword is .... purpose." He smirks at the young man and heads off into the crowds, hands clasped loose behind his back. While he could have negated the man, instead Kwabena lets the man speak. He never interrupts, he merely watches, and he remains just as silent as Erik walks off into the crowd. He reaches for the business card, glancing at it in passing as it makes its way to his pocket. Then he shakes his head in mock awe and murmurs quietly to himself, "No, Mister Lehnsherr. I merely wanted to show you what I can do." Not how it works, but what it does. For Kwabena Odame does not understand his capability, nor does he know how to wrangle it into something far greater than he could possibly image. Staring at the chess game, he reaches over to flick his own King onto its side, before lighting another cigarette and letting the enormity and ridiculousness of what just happened absorb into him. Category:Logs Category:RPLogs